


It Don't Come Easy

by yodasyoyo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Full Shift Werewolves, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Socially Awkward Derek Hale, Wolf Derek Hale, things are much easier when Derek's a wolf, words are hard mkay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 14:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17644886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: Not more than five minutes later Stiles is back in his room, lying on his bed, his laptop balanced up on his bent knees, Derek burrowed against his left side. Stiles is typing furiously, and every now and then Derek nuzzles into him a bit further, like he’s never quite gonna be close enough.“We are never gonna speak about this to anyone,” Stiles mutters darkly, as Derek lifts one heavy forepaw and places it possessively across Stiles’ belly. “They must never know how easily you manipulated me with your floofy fur and your puppy dog eyes.”Derek chuffs.If Stiles squints with his ears he almost thinks it sounds like a laugh.





	It Don't Come Easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smowkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smowkie/gifts).



> So I do sterek fic rec posts on my tumblr. And my good pal Smowkie asked for me to rec some Feral Derek fic ages ago, and then I realized I hadn't read that *much* feral Derek fic (idk why? I'm sure there must be loads) So I never created a rec list for her and I felt bad (because she's awesome and deserves all the good things). Never mind, I thought, I'll WRITE her a feral Derek fic-- because it's a trope I haven't explored before and that will be interesting.
> 
> HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. THIS IS NOT FERAL DEREK. SORRY.
> 
> Turns out I can't write feral!Derek, but have this anyway, Smowkie! You rock!

An emergency. That’s what this was supposed to be. That was why Stiles had deserted the papers he’d been grading for the AP History class he teaches at Beacon Hills High, and driven half way across town to the preserve at nearly seven o’clock at night.

A goddamn fucking emergency, _Scott._

Not-- whatever this is.

“Wait, sooooo--” Stiles trails off. He isn’t sure he has actual words for this. There’s now a wolf in the passenger seat of his Jeep. An enormous black wolf.

Derek.

Apparently.

Derek, who currently has his head sticking out the window, his tongue lolling out happily.

With a grimace Scott says, “Deaton thinks it’s gonna wear off soon.”

“Oh Deaton thinks so, does he? Deaton deigned to communicate something to us lesser mortals? Because he’s usually so forthcoming with the information.” Stiles rolls his eyes, and Scott frowns at him, brow wrinkling in disapproval. “I don’t suppose he mentioned how soon ‘soon’ is? An hour? A day? A week? No? Of course not. Ok,” Stiles says, “so what happened? Derek got whammied with some kind of spell while you were patrolling?”

“Exactly.”

“And it forced him into his wolf form.”

Scott nods. “I have his clothes in this bag.” He shoves a Target bag into Stiles’ unresisting grip.

“Okaaaaay.” Stiles stares down at the bag in his hand and then back at his Jeep. The Jeep that wolf Derek had jumped into as soon as Stiles’d pulled up and opened the door. Wolf Derek had been super affectionate actually. Stiles had been a little freaked out to have a giant wolf try to climb in his lap and basically try to stick it’s tongue into his mouth out of nowhere. Sure, Scott had broken out the ol’ Alpha voice, but all that had succeeded in doing was getting Derek to clamber awkwardly across the center console into the passenger seat, and since then he’d refused to move.

Realization starts to dawn in Stiles’ mind. “Wait. You want _me_ to look after him?”

“Uhh. I think _he_ wants you to look after him.”

“But I have papers to grade and I still need to plan--”

“It’ll be fine,” Scott says, cutting Stiles off before he can gather steam. “Derek’ll just-- chill, at your place.”

“Chill?” Stiles squawks looking at the enormous black wolf in his car and then back at Scott again. “Seriously? Are you serious right now?”

“He’s a chill dude.”

“He’s a grumpy loner with no sense of humor who’s probably gonna shed all over my carpet.”

Across from them Derek whines, ears flattening.

“Bro,” Scott says, voice all sad and disapproving. “He can totally hear you.”

“He-- But--Couldn’t _you_ just--” Stiles looks at him hopefully, because there are many reasons why he doesn’t actually want to be wolf-sitting Derek. Many many reasons. None of them that he’s gonna actually say out loud, because they involve long-repressed feelings and years of gross pining.

“I have a date with Kira. It’s our anniversary.” Scott ducks his head, managing to look proud and bashful at the same time. They’ve been married two years. In that moment, Stiles wishes, treacherously, that they could be slightly less excruciatingly happy with each other.

“Right. Sure you do. Of course.” Stiles would list the other pack members who could wolf-sit, but truthfully he’s here now, and if he makes too much of a deal he’s gonna sound like an asshole.

More of an asshole.

Godammit.

He sighs, “Well. You better get on that, and I guess I’ll--” Half turning, he waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the Jeep and Derek.

At that Derek yips. There’s a _thudthudthud_ noise and it takes Stiles a beat to realize, that’s the sound of Derek’s tail thumping against the back of the seat.

“Great,” Scott’s looking down at his phone, completely oblivious to this weirdness, his dopey, ‘texting Kira’ smile on his face. “Thanks, bud. You’re the best.”

Glancing back, Stiles says, “You definitely owe me.” But it’s too late. Scott is already gone, loping off through the preserve in completely the opposite direction from Stiles’ house.

Stiles takes a moment to stare longingly at Scott’s retreating back, then he wheels back around to face Derek who is currently trying to scratch his own ear with one giant hind paw. As Stiles looks at him he stops scratching, mouth stretching wide over sharp teeth, eyes bright.  
  
If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say Derek looked-- happy.

Verging on smug.

 

-

 

“Okay,” Stiles says later, as he opens the front door to his home. “I think we need to set some ground ruull--!” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because Derek burrows past him squeezing through the gap between Stiles’ leg and the door jamb and almost knocking him off his feet. “Hey, no dogs--” No. Not dogs. That’s probably, definitely, offensive. “No werebeings upstairs. No werebeings on the bed!” Stiles calls, but it’s too late. There’s just the rapid thump of paws racing up the stairs. When Stiles finally reaches his bedroom he is, somehow, completely unsurprised to find Derek curled on the bed, nose tucked under his tail, eyes scrunched tightly shut. Apparently he’s asleep. Stiles isn’t fooled.

“When you get back to being--” Stiles flails. “--you. Human, you. You’re totally gonna vacuum my room and wash my bedding, dude.”

Derek lies there, immobile, but Stiles doesn’t miss the way he cracks an eye ever so slightly-- when he sees Stiles glaring at him, he shuts it again quickly.

“Fine,” Stiles says, “but I have work to do. So you can stay on my bed if you want, but don’t disturb me, ok?”

Boundaries, he has to set boundaries, otherwise this is all gonna go to shit.

Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles takes this as tacit agreement. So he crosses the room, slumps into his chair, opens his laptop and punches the power button; the screen flares to life. With a beleaguered sigh he idly clicks the screen and enters his password.

He has to get this work done for tomorrow or Principal Finstock is totally gonna- “Arggh!”

Stiles starts backward, not quite falling out of his chair in surprise. There’s a warm head with thick fur, soft as velvet, nudging up under his arm. He looks down just in time to see Derek’s head plop heavily into his lap. “Oh no, big guy,” Stiles says. “No.”

Derek doesn’t move. He just looks up at Stiles with big blue eyes. Unblinking. Reproachful, even. Evidently Derek only wants to be on Stiles’ bed if Stiles is gonna be there too.

“Look-- I can’t-- you,” Stiles says, gesturing weakly at his laptop. “I have to--”

Derek whines low in his throat.

At that Stiles tentatively reaches out to pet Derek, fingers drifting over the silky fur of his ears, then scritching lightly at the back of his head. A deep, happy, rumbling noise emanates from somewhere inside Derek as his eyes slide shut.

They sit like that for five full minutes with Stiles just running his fingers through the thick fur of Derek’s ruff again and again and again. It’s hypnotic. Relaxing.

It’s--

It isn’t helping him get any work done.

Stiles stares at his laptop, then reluctantly lifts his hand from where it’s been fussing Derek. “Get back over there.” He gestures at the bed.

The noise Derek makes is pitiful.

“I’m serious,” Stiles says. “You-- I can’t just pet you all evening, and your head is heavy, dude, you’re huge. I can’t even pull my chair up to the desk properly if you’re sitting right--”

Derek tries to burrow closer. His muzzle getting dangerously close to Stiles groin which-- Stiles jerks back a little, chair rolling even further away from the desk, and Derek presses home his advantage, resting his forepaws on Stiles knees and rising up on his back legs snuffling at Stiles’ face, licking a massive stripe across Stiles’ cheek.

“No licking my face, man! Geeze! Were you raised by wolves or something?”

Derek gives him a look. Stiles isn’t quite sure how he manages to look so disapproving and judgemental as a wolf, but he does it. It’s kind of hilarious, and also kind of guilt-making.

“You really need me to be right next to you, huh?” Stiles murmurs, reaching out a hand in spite of himself and petting Derek again.

The soulful look Derek sends his way is agonizingly effective.

Stiles is done for.

With a sigh he gets up, goes downstairs, makes himself hot cocoa with marshmallows-- because he’s earned marshmallows today goddamn it. Derek follows him to the kitchen sticking close the whole time. On a whim, not really sure if Derek’ll hate him for the indignity of it all later, Stiles fills a bowl with water and places it on the floor for Derek. There’s an ominous crinkling crunching sound as he does that, and when he stands back up again and looks round the bag containing the marshmallows is suspiciously empty and wolf!Derek is trying, and failing, to eat three large marshmallows at once. Which is hilarious, and endearing, and also kind of gross.

“Duuuude,” Stiles says. “Pretty sure those are bad for dogs.” Derek bumps his head against Stiles knee reproachfully. “I know, I know. You’re not a dog. Whatever. I just-- I wish I hadn’t left my phone upstairs. That would’ve been one for the pack Whatsapp group, y’know?”

Derek doesn’t reply, he’s too busy lapping up water from the bowl like his life depends on it.

Not more than five minutes later Stiles is back in his room, lying on his bed, his laptop balanced up on his bent knees, Derek burrowed against his left side. Stiles is typing furiously, and every now and then Derek nuzzles into him a bit further, like he’s never quite gonna be close enough.

“We are never gonna speak about this to anyone,” Stiles mutters darkly, as Derek lifts one heavy forepaw and places it possessively across Stiles’ belly. “They must never know how easily you manipulated me with your floofy fur and your puppy dog eyes.”

Derek chuffs.

If Stiles squints with his ears he almost thinks it sounds like a laugh.

 

-

 

Out of force of habit Stiles wakes the next morning a few minutes before his alarm is due to go off. He lays there in the semi-darkness slowly gaining awareness of three key things.

One: He’s still wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday.

Two: His mouth tastes like ass. Well. Not _literal_ ass, but definitely like he didn’t brush his teeth last night.

And three: He is hot. So hot. Furnace hot. And sweaty and--

His head lolls to the side and the events of the previous evening coming flooding back in glorious technicolor.

Derek.

Who-- Stiles pats the inhumanly warm lump that’s shifting beside him under the covers-- is definitely not a wolf any more.

Nope.

Stiles swallows as his fingers graze bare skin, pulling them away like they’ve been burned.

Not a wolf.

So.

Human, then.

And naked.

So very naked.

And in Stiles’ bed.

With the nakedness.

And…

Ugh. This is awful. Swallowing hard he moves to sit up and switches on his bedside lamp. His laptop is closed and propped up against the side of his bed where he left it last night when he finished grading papers and finally fell asleep snuggling a giant wolf.

It’s possible he’s imagined sharing a bed with Derek over the years.

It’s nothing like he thought it would be.

Derek’s hair is rumpled, face slack and open in sleep, he looks younger and strangely trusting. As Stiles watches he shifts, turning his face away from the lamp light, and--oh god--there are pillow creases on his face.

Pillow creases.  
  
_Pillow creases._  

It’s so fucking _normal._

So gut-wrenchingly vulnerable, and-- and intimate.

For some reason that’s the thing that breaks Stiles.

The thing is he’s spent a long, long time repressing feelings for Derek.

He’s gotten pretty fucking good at it over the last few years. Always ready with a witty retort, deflecting feelings with humor whenever things get too real, or too awkward. Disguising worry as anger, and channeling affection into arguments. It’s been easier than admitting to himself what he feels-- easier than putting himself out there only to get rejected.

Because he’s pretty sure he would be rejected.

Sure, there have been times when he’s thought about it. Thought about Derek throwing him up against a wall and fucking him, probably mid argument-- thought about them taking full advantage of all that ridiculous werewolf strength and stamina many times in many different positions.

But that’s all he’s thought about.

Very carefully and deliberately that’s all he’s ever _allowed_ himself to think about.

Just attraction.

Pillow creases, though?

Fuck.

This is reality. It’s so much better, and so much worse, than anything he could have imagined.

This is Derek in Stiles’ bed, tangled in his sheets. This is Derek’s face mashed into Stiles’ favorite pillow, leaving a lake of drool in his wake. This is the searing heat of Derek’s body- far hotter than a normal human. Too hot. Stiles feels clammy and sweaty where he’s been cuddled up next to him all night.

As Stiles watches Derek starts to snore, a rattling, wheezing, sound that builds slowly, echoing in the stillness of the morning.

Oh god. It’s awful, like a dinosaur wielding a chainsaw and Stiles is in love with him.

Stiles is totally fucking in love with him.

How could he ever have pretended it was anything else?

He’s in love with pillow creases and drool and the terrible snoring, and he’d even tolerate the ridiculous heat-- because this-- Derek trusting and vulnerable and _sleeping_ next to him, this is everything he hasn’t allowed himself to want or imagine.

This is it. Game over. There’s no coming back.

Their weird not-quite-a-friendship is probably ruined.

Stiles is just gonna have to emigrate. That’s all. That’s the only way out of this now.

While he was telling himself it was just physical attraction he could kinda, sorta, maybe deal with it. But he knows himself, and there’s no way he’s gonna be able to keep this quiet. His mouth operates on autopilot whenever he gets nervous, and he’s a terrible liar at the best of times.

He stares down at Derek’s prone form, adoring and kind of grossed out in equal measure; at that precise moment his alarm goes off-- a shrill chirp that echoes through the morning. Stiles dives for it immediately, fumbling his phone, nearly dropping it, before quickly catching it and switching the alarm off.

When he looks back around the snoring has stopped. Derek is still lying in bed, but now he’s staring up at Stiles eyes wide with shock.

“Hey,” Stiles says. Then when Derek doesn’t immediately respond, he adds, “Welcome back to the land of the-- bipeds?”

Derek swallows, and maybe Stiles is imagining it, but there seems to be a blush rising on his cheeks. As Stiles watches, Derek reaches down and pulls the tangled sheets further around himself like a shield. All Stiles can think is how bad this room must smell to Derek, it must stink of all Stiles repressed feelings-- no wonder he looks so uncomfortable.

“How much do you remember?” Stiles tries.

“Uh-- n-not much.” Derek’s voice sounds like a rusted hinge.

“Right,” Stiles swallows. “Well. I wasn’t there, but apparently last night on patrol you pissed off a witch? And she--uh-- forced you into your wolf form. Scott called me and put me on wolf watch, and I brought you back to my place so here we are-- ta da!” He does the most dispirited jazz hands the world has ever seen.

“Scott,” Derek mutters to himself, looking murderous.

“He had a thing with Kira,” Stiles finds himself saying, even though he, too, had been pissed off with Scott not twelve hours previously for putting them in this situation.

“Yeah,” Derek looks sullen and embarrassed.

“It didn’t matter. I didn’t uh-- maybe I’ll um--” Stiles clears his throat. “Head to the shower. You can stay here, maybe take a turn when I get out? Then I can make breakfast or--”

Derek makes a face. It could be a smile or a grimace. It’s not always easy to tell with Derek. Stiles decides to pretend it was a smile.

“Ok,” Stiles says. “I’ll--” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the bathroom, and then climbs out of bed pausing only to gather a change of clothes from his drawers.

As he’s about to leave the room Derek says, “Stiles?”

“Yeah?” One hand on the doorknob, Stiles looks back.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

When he finally gets out of the shower, Derek is gone.

In his heart of hearts Stiles didn’t really expect anything else.

 

-

 

After that things sort of go back to normal.

Sort of.

The witch moves on. That’s one thing.

Stiles doesn’t emigrate. That’s another.

Instead, he tells himself he isn’t gonna focus on all his newly recognized, gooey, romantic feelings for Derek. He’s just gonna get on with his life and everything is gonna go back to normal. He isn’t gonna think about it at all.  

That’s what he tells himself.

He doesn’t succeed.

So after a week of self-flagellation and regret he  reluctantly settles down to do some hardcore pining. He finds himself staring at Derek in pack meetings, imagining dates and pillow talk, and the name of the cat he thinks they’d adopt when they move in together. He drifts off into Derek themed daydreams in class, (which is kind of an issue, given that he’s the fucking teacher). It’s all very sad and frustrating and precisely what Stiles had been trying to avoid for the last god knows how many years. What he’d _succeeded_ in avoiding right up until Derek ended up in his bed that one night, and disappeared right after.

What’s worse is, Derek has gone back to being stoic and taciturn. So no change there then, except that whereas Stiles is hyper aware of Derek, now Derek seems to be pretending Stiles doesn’t exist at all. At least before there was tentative friendship and low level bickering, and working together for the good of the pack.

Now there’s radio silence.

Derek used to go round to the Sheriff’s place and watch the game on Sundays with Stiles and his dad. They’d drink beer and chat shit with each other. It’d always been one of the highlights of Stiles’ week. But suddenly Derek is making excuses not to show, and Stiles’ dad is crestfallen.

“Did you two argue, or something?” He says to Stiles one Sunday, when Derek fails to show for the third week in a row.

“No--I. No.” Stiles knows they didn’t argue. You’d have to be talking to someone to argue, and he and Derek haven't seen each other outside of pack meetings.

In point of fact, things have gotten so bad that when Stiles was buying cereal yesterday, he’s pretty sure Derek abandoned a shopping cart full of groceries in the middle of the store to avoid speaking to him, because moments later there was the sound of the Camaro’s tires screaming against the asphalt as Derek hightailed it out of there in a peel or rubber.

The thing is, it can’t continue like this. It just can’t. Stiles and Derek are key members of Scott’s pack. They need to talk to each other. The pack depends on them having a functioning relationship. Or semi-functioning at least.

There’s no two ways about it.

So after nearly a month of weirdness, Stiles decides to take one for the team. They’re just gonna have to talk about this. Sure, he may have freaked Derek out with the romantic feelings that Derek can probably smell all over him, but they’re gonna have to get past it.

The greater good. That’s what this is about.

So one Friday night after work, he drives over to Derek’s apartment in his Jeep. Sits outside for a good ten minutes quietly freaking out, and then forces himself up the stairs until he’s standing outside the door to Derek’s loft.

He knocks.

No answer.

After a long moment he calls, “I know you’re in there, Derek.”

There’s no sound.

A moment later he tries. “I’ve got all night, buddy.” He sighs. “I’ll sing Nickelback, I swear to God.”

Moments later the door the loft slides open; Derek scowls at him.

“What do you want, Stiles?”

He looks impossibly grumpy and adorable, with mussed hair, gray sweatpants and a tank-top that has a spaghetti sauce stain on it. Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to steady himself. He can do this. He can totally do this.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“This. Us. Why you’re ignoring me.”

“I’m not ignoring you.” Derek looks unmistakably shifty.

“Yes you are. We both know you are.”

“No.” Derek glares, but he won’t meet Stiles’ gaze and a glare that’s aimed two inches above Stiles’ left shoulder is both less effective and totally soul destroying.

“Look. I get it. It’s ok. I’m not gonna be weird about it.”

Derek’s eyes dart to him and away.

“I won’t make a big deal about it. So you can--” Stiles waves a hand. “Stop avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Derek says mulishly. It’s a bald-faced lie and they both know it.

“Fine,” Stiles says magnanimously. “You’re not avoiding me. Whatever. All I’m saying is, my dad misses you, and the pack needs us. So we can’t let any residual awkwardness get in the way of what’s best for them.”

Derek finally meets his eyes. “I would never let that happen,” he says.

“Sure,” Stiles shifts from foot to foot. “Ok. Well. Now we’ve cleared the air, it can go back to normal, I guess. We’ll just-- never talk about this again.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

They stare at each other. Derek swallows, he looks so thoroughly miserable, and Stiles can’t help saying, “Was it really that bad though?”

“Is that never talking about it again?”

“Right. Yeah. Was it though?” Stiles takes a deep shuddering sigh. “Because it’s not like I can help it, y’know. None of us can help our feelings and I’m sorry if I got mine all over you-- but you have to know I would never, like, make a big deal about it. There are no expectations on my part. I’m not asking anything from you-- but the way you’ve been completely ignoring me and-”

“Stiles--”

“--Cutting me out of your life. You won’t even look at me at pack meetings and the way you--”

“Stiles!” Derek reaches out and grabs him by the shoulders. “What the fuck are you talking about? What feelings?”

Stiles blinks at him. “My feelings,” he admits. “My gross, sappy, romantic, love-type feelings for you and your--” he gestures broadly at Derek, “--everything.”

“Feelings,” Derek says blankly. “You have feelings. For me.”

“Why? What did you think we were talking about?”

“My--” Derek checks himself. “Nothing.”

“Derek.” Stiles waits a beat, then says, “Derek, I swear to Zeus I will--”

“I may remember more about that night then I initially let on,” Derek admits.

“Erm. What?”

Derek release his grip on Stiles and takes a step back. He heaves a big sigh. “I-- If I’ve been ignoring you--” He swallows. “It’s because I was embarrassed about the way I--” He makes an abrupt abortive gesture with one hand. “Y’know. When I was a wolf.”

“The way you--” Stiles prompts.

“It’s just easier when I’m a wolf, ok? Everything seems a lot simpler. You like someone. You trust them, and you just--” He makes that little abortive gesture again, a blush stealing across his cheeks. He looks kind of mortified. “There were no boundaries. I just-- I couldn’t stop myself being all--” He trails off into silence.

“Because you like me,” Stiles says, realization dawning. “You like me as in-- you _like_ me.”

Derek rolls his eyes, effectively communicating, ‘well, duh.’

“Ok,” Stiles says, after a moment. “Ok. Well. New plan. I’m coming into your apartment now. We’re gonna make out for a bit, and then we’re gonna have this whole conversation again properly.”

“Always with the talking.”

“Yeah. Why talk when you could abandon a weeks worth of groceries in a store and run away like a real man?”

“I--” Derek’s mouth goes all small and tight. “Got an urgent call.”

“Sure you did.”

Derek changes tack. “I don’t know why you think I would just know that you liked me.”

“You can literally sniff out emotion. You should have been able to tell that I liked you ages ago.”

“Not--” Derek huffs an exasperated sigh. “That isn’t how it works. I don’t know what you’re thinking about even if I can sometimes smell-- stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles is still feeling a little pissed.

For his part, Derek seems to realize that this is going badly and his shoulders sag a little. “I’m not-- good --at this,” he admits after a long moment.

“This?”

“Relationships. People.” He inhales through his nose. “Words.”

Stiles swallows, frustration finally dissolving into something softer, more forgiving. God knows life has taught them both to be more comfortable with rough edges than kindness, better at wielding words as weapons than trying to sit down and have the grown-up conversation. They both tend to get defensive and assume the worst, rather than expect the best.

That isn’t what this situation calls for though.

Not even a little bit.

And if Derek can admit his faults, than Stiles can too. “Neither am I,” he says. “God. But-- I wanna be. I wanna try. With you.”

That seems to take Derek by surprise; ducking his head a little he says, “Me too.”

Stiles cracks a smile at that, and a second later Derek smiles back, small and hopeful.

“So, you wanna go with my original plan of making out and then talking?” Stiles asks. “Or we could try plan B.”

“Plan B?”

“You go full wolf and snuggle me on the couch while we watch shit on Netflix-- we avoid awkward conversations about feelings entirely for tonight.”

Derek rolls his eyes at that, but he looks unbearably fond and kind of shy. It’s a good look on him. “Plan A,” he says, reaching out and tugging Stiles forward by his t-shirt gently. “You’re worth the awkward conversations.”

 

I don't ask for much, I only want your trust  
And you know it don't come easy  
And this love of mine keeps growing all the time  
And you know it don't come easy

_Ringo Starr, It Don't Come Easy_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who leaves kudos and/or comments. YOU'RE THE BEST!!!
> 
> This was slightly angstier than intended. Sorry about that folks. 
> 
> Title and the quote at the end taken from It Don't Come Easy, by Ringo Starr.


End file.
